


The Mother

by orphan_account



Category: Flowers in the Attic - V. C. Andrews
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-04
Updated: 2018-12-04
Packaged: 2019-09-07 10:40:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16852498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: “Lead me out of temptation, mother,” Bart whispered, white knuckles to his lips. If she could turn away from sin, perhaps she could redeem them all, an entire family built on falsehoods and vice. -unfinished drabble





	The Mother

Candlelight cast shadows over the dark walls of the chapel like shrieking demons dancing in hellfire. Bart walked the aisle, fingertips trailing the exquisitely carved mahogany pews. Hand carved by the finest artisans, meticulous, no expense spared, like every aspect of Foxworth Hall. This chapel, though hidden and private, was the crowning jewel of Bart’s estate. As such, it deserved an appropriate centerpiece, something to properly showcase his devotion to the Lord.

At the altar stood a magnificent cross, solid, black, imposing in stature. Bart loved it most of all. Every time he laid eye upon it, he imagined the Christ, bloody and prostrate as he paid for the sins of all mankind. Paid for the sin that began with Eve, the mother of all the men and women to come.

She hung there, radiant and beautiful, her creamy skin naked, exposed in the dim light. Soft golden hair curled around her shoulders, her full breasts, the subtle curves of her body, the nip of her waist, the flair of her hips. It’d grown so long; the ends reached almost to her rear, fell almost to the fleecy tangle of yellow curls above her sex. Her long legs, elegant, shapely, still powerful after so many years, crossed one over the other. How extraordinary that her battered feet alone showcased the darkness within, from which all sin, all evil, had erupted.

“Mother,” Bart breathed, dropping to his knees, hands clasped in prayer, head bowed near to the floor as he rocked, swayed back and forth.

“Bart,” Cathy sobbed, “Please.”

He could not listen. Women were the origin of deceit, liars, whores, all of them. Except… except perhaps Eve, who hadn’t intended to bring sin to the world, only knowledge and wisdom, a gift she wanted to share with Adam and her sons, her daughters to follow.

Bart raised his head, staring up the planes of Cathy’s body uncertainly. She was the product of sin, the wife of sin, and yet… she was so beautiful. Even now, her face wretched up and tear strained, she appeared as an angel.

“Lead me out of temptation, mother,” he whispered, white knuckles to his lips. If she could turn away from sin, perhaps she could redeem them all, an entire family built on falsehoods and vice. Joel had made everything clear; Malcolm’s depravity, his obsession with his mother and daughter. How it had been passed down to Christopher, his uncle and stepfather in one, expressed through fornication with his sister, who looked so much like his own mother, grandmother, great-grandmother. A generational cycle, an infection deep within his own veins, for here she was before him, more beautiful, more perfect than any other woman.

Was Catherine the sin or merely the instrument of the devil’s work, an unwitting accomplice to Christopher’s lust? Eve was weak. She needed protection and guidance, and Adam had not been there for her. He had not been there and Eve, just as unwitting, just as much a pawn to Satan’s practiced hand, brought the downfall of mankind. Mankind born from Eve, the eternal mother, mother to all. Eve had given birth to her sons and her sons’ sons. They’d turned not to their sisters but to Eve, from which all life had sprung.

“Mother,” Bart murmured again, curling his spine up and leaning forward to kiss her bleeding feet. Such delicate instruments, for it had been years since she had really danced and she would never dance again.

“Bart,” she answered and the tears fell like rain from her eyes into Bart’s hair, over his cheeks. “My sweet baby, let me help you.”

“No, mother,” Bart stood then, fingers trailing over the pulpit. “It’s my turn to help you. Let me help you, mother.”

He’d pray a thousand years if it meant saving his mother’s soul. Whatever he needed to do to keep her from the pits of all, where Uncle Chris threatened to drag her, he would. Anything. Save her and, in turn, save himself. 


End file.
